The Blind Page 4

  “You’re right on target,” Ricci said.

  “No one’s come forward to take credit?” Evie asked. From a criminal perspective, these bombs had been wickedly successful. Each caused death and considerable destruction and garnered the bomber media attention. This guy had one of the largest cities in the United States trembling in its glittery shoes. Makes for a happy, happy bomber. Someone, somewhere, was gloating.

  “We got rumblings from a quasi-militia group, but nothing came of it,” Cho said. “A few crackpots and crackheads piped in, but no go.”

  “Have you figured out what statement he’s trying to make?” Evie asked. Many serial bombers were terrorists, mercenaries, or organized crime operatives. Some were disillusioned idealists or psychopaths. All were on a mission. They had a statement to make, and they wanted the world to hear it.

  “Nothing,” Ricci said.

  “Until now,” Evie added as she spun her chair and faced the wall of beautiful, mostly naked, women. “We’re looking at a guy re-creating art.” She remembered the powerful pull of the images in Elliott’s gallery. “But art also makes a statement.”

  “Could be an attack on Elliott Enterprises or corporate America in general, whiffs of Occupy Wall Street movements,” Aaron Jarzab of the ATF said.

  “Or perhaps it’s an attack on Elliott himself,” Ricci said. “He has his fingers in a lot of pies, and my guess is not everyone at the kitchen table appreciates his brand of business.”

  “Could be someone with mother issues.”

  “Or a misogynist determined to publicly show his rage at women.”

  “Or it could be an ultra-conservative fanatic who considers nudes pornographic.”

  Ideas flew through the room like birds scattered by gunshot. Evie jotted down notes. There were so many ways this thing could go, and it could go at any time.

  A woman with brown hair shaped like a helmet popped her head through the doorway. “Excuse me, Agent Jimenez, but a Mr. Jack Elliott is here to see you.”

  Her pen stilled. She was not surprised he was here but surprised it had taken him two hours to insert himself into the investigation.

  Captain Ricci tucked the report under his arm and stood. “You all have your assignments. We’ll meet first thing tomorrow morning, sooner if anything pops.” To Evie he said, “Keep me posted on Elliott.”

  Captain Ricci had given her a temp office on the second floor of the downtown station, where she’d done her unique style of decorating. Along one wall she’d taped a photo of each of the seven victims. Jack Elliott stood before that wall, unblinking.

  “Good morning, Mr. Elliott.”

  He gave her a crisp nod. Everything about the man was crisp. The crease in his trousers, the knot in his tie, the sharp angles of his hair. She brushed at the grime on the right sleeve of her jacket, compliments of her alley run-in with Brady. Last night before moving into her motel, she’d picked up a few T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, underthings, and a box of laundry soap, but she’d been too busy putting together her report to do any laundry. Still was.

  “What brings you here this morning, Mr. Elliott?”

  Reaching into the pocket on the inside of his jacket, he took out a small piece of paper. “It’s a reward for information leading to the arrest of the bomber.”

  She unfolded the paper, a business check with the EE logo. “Dios mío!” In investigations gone cold, a big chunk of change could heat up things. Promises of riches turned brother against brother, husband against wife, minions against mastermind. “A quarter of a million is a shitload of money.”

  “And here are some individuals you’ll need to talk with.” He handed her a thumb drive. “That includes security and access records to the Abby Foundation and every piece of paperwork I have on the Beauty Through the Ages collection.”

  Elliott was so generous, handing over gifts like Santa. She pressed her palms into the sides of her jeans. What the hell was up with this guy? She took a seat on the edge of her U-shaped desk. “Let me guess, you wanted to be a cop when you were a kid.”

  His brow wrinkled. “I wanted to be a horse jockey.”

  She sputtered out a laugh. “You’re kidding.” The guy was six-feet-plus with shoulders twice the width of hers. Shoulders used to carrying heavy loads, she couldn’t help but think.

  “I don’t kid,” he said with a straight face.

  She shifted her legs, her boots swinging. She could do serious, too. “Did you know many serial killers insert themselves into an investigation?”

  “I am not your bomber, Agent Jimenez.” No blink. All cool and control.

  “Then who are you?”

  He turned back to the victim’s photos, but not quick enough to hide the twitch in his jaw.

  “I said, who are you, Jack? And why are you here?” She hopped up and waved the check in his face. “And why do you care so damn much?” She stood still, the small piece of paper hovering between them.

  Seconds gave way to minutes, and he finally pointed to the photo of the first victim. “I may not be your bomber, but I am a killer. I’m her killer.” He stabbed a finger at the next two photos. “And her killer and her killer.” One by one he pointed to the other individuals who’d been killed because they’d been within the IEDs’ deadly reaches. “I may not have abducted those three women, I may not have planted and detonated those three bombs, but I am responsible for those seven deaths and for the terror gripping my city.”

  Guilt etched his face, carving pain, sculpting sorrow, chipping away at a block of marble. That stirring in her gut wasn’t wrong. In Jack Elliott’s mind, he was guilty. Her own gut jackknifed. She knew what it was like to hold another’s life in her hands and have it yanked away. Horror pummeled your gut, anger exploded in your chest, sadness swelled in your throat, choking off words. The kicker was, the guilt never went away. It became a part of you and everything you did.

  With a sharp nod, Jack clipped toward the door. She dashed after him, settling her hand on the arm of his suit coat. Silky smooth and rock hard but unexpectedly warm. Jack Elliott was human and hurting. “The secret to dealing with guilt is keeping the SOB in a corral until it can serve you and the mission.” She lifted the check and flash drive, holding them squarely in front of his face. “Thank you, Jack. These will make a difference.”

  He pulled in a deep breath, his chest pressing against his pin-striped vest, today a deep blue, almost black. “I hope so.” He exhaled and left her office.

  After the echo of his shiny dress shoes died away, she sat at her computer and popped in the thumb drive. Jack had given her a valuable hit list, names of every individual who had access to the Beauty Through the Ages collection. As she scrolled through the files she was thankful Jack Elliott was a control freak. The records listed every individual entering the secured gallery along with day, time, and duration of stay. Claire of the Kingdom of Beige clocked in monthly visits, probably to make sure things were “freshened up.” Foundation director Adam Wainwright stopped by about once a week as did Brandon Brice, who was the foundation’s current artist in residence.

  She reached the final page. That was it. Only three distinct visitors.

  She tapped her thumbs on the keyboard. Something wasn’t right. Again, she read through the list. No one raised any red flags. No dates or pattern of entry seemed significant. She closed the file and scrolled through the other documents created by the uber-efficient Jack Elliott. And then it hit her. She went back to the Beauty Through the Ages access records, and there it was, clear as the brilliant sun shining today. With the exception of last night, Jack Elliott had not stopped by to see his multimillion-dollar art collection. Odd, but on a deeper level, sad. Jack Elliott collected beautiful paintings but didn’t take the time to look at them.

  Chapter Six

  Thursday, October 29

  9:33 a.m.

  Evie ducked under the splintered wood railing and sidestepped a pile of horse manure, her boots slapping the concrete that separated the bar
ns at Hollywood Turf. A brisk breeze stirred up the scent of fresh hay, sweaty horses, and grease, the latter emanating from the man with slicked-back hair sitting on the bench in front of the last barn. She parked herself at the end of the bench.

  “If Skip sent you, tell him I’ll have his next payment a week from Tuesday,” he said without looking up from the playbook in his hands. “And if you’re looking for a tip, I recommend Waltzing Matilda here to show in the eighth.” He took the highlighter from behind his ear and ran it across a line in the book. “She’s forty-five to one ’cause she’s really a miler, doesn’t like the long halls, but she loves running in sunshine.”

  Evie placed a single dusty boot on the bench. “We need to talk.”

  His gaze snapped to her, not a single greasy hair moving out of place. “For a filly with great legs, anything.” He ran the side of his highlighter along her booted calf.

  She kicked away the pen. “You’re slimier than I thought, Freddy Ortiz.”

  “My reputation precedes me.” The tabloid photographer placed his fingertips on his chest and bowed. “You must be a fan. Want my autograph?”

  “Your stench precedes you.” She flashed her creds. “I want answers.”

  He curled the playbook into a column and aimed it at her. “So you’re Agent Jimenez. Police scanners are all abuzz about you this morning. I was gonna hunt you down.”

  “Beat you to it.” She snatched the playbook. “So talk. How did you end up at the library at the time of the bombing killing Lisa Franco? Someone tip you off?”

  “I already did this dance with Captain Ricci, but because I like your hooves,” he jutted his chin toward her red boot, “I’ll take to the dance floor again. Nothing on my tip line. I was trolling the streets of downtown looking for lewd and lascivious and lucked out.”

  “Some luck.” The side of her mouth curled in a snarl. “Having a woman’s brain explode and land on your shoe.”

  “Yep, that was my money shot. Pretty artistic, if I do say so myself. But I’m no different than you, Lady Feeb. We’re like souls, both earning a living off these sickos.”

  Her hand clenched, tightening around the playbook until it was the diameter of the barrel of her Glock. She aimed it at his chest. “But unlike you, I’m attempting to stop them.”

  He raised both hands to his chest. “Hey, it’s not like I want a psycho bomber on the streets.”

  “But until he’s stopped, you have no issue exploiting him for personal gain.”

  “A got no issue with making a little money.” He held out his hand for the playbook, but she slipped it in her back pocket.

  She slid her boot off the bench and ground her heel into the straw scattered across the floor. Criminals used media slugs to further their missions, but so did people on her side of the law, and for now, this slimy mass of humanity was important to her case. “Has the bomber contacted you since the bombing?”

  “No.”

  Reading people wasn’t her strong suit. She took a step toward him.

  “I swear on the grave of my sweet abuela.” He made a sign of the cross, then ran his fingers along his crumpled brow. “Why would he?”

  “Most bombers have a burning desire to share a message. Your photos were picked up worldwide and shared for days. He got unprecedented attention, all thanks to you. He most likely sees you as an ally.”

  “Yep, that’s me, a guy with friends in low places.” The rolls of flesh on Freddy’s upper body shuddered.

  “Which is why I’m going to put a trace on your phone. It’s possible this guy could reach out to you.”

  “Whoa, there. Not my tip line. If folks find out the Feebs are listening in, they won’t do no more talking. I gotta protect my sources.” He waggled his finger at her. “You can’t touch my tip line.”

  “I can.” She slipped the subpoena from her bag.

  “You move fast.” A smarmy grin slid across his lips. “I like fast women, but I also know my rights. The only stuff you guys are allowed to act on is anything related to Bomber Boy. Anything more, and I’m calling foul. Learned that in J School.”

  She feigned shock. “You went to school?”

  Freddy took a bright green pack of gum from his shirt pocket and popped a square into his mouth. Even from three feet away, the too sweet, too tangy odor made her gag. “I studied photojournalism back in the nineties,” Freddy said. “I was gonna chronicle in pictures the big stories. The fall of communism. The clash of cultures in the Mideast.”

  “Lose your passport?” Evie asked.

  Freddy grinned. “Found a gold mine. The dirt rags pay big, especially for a guy willing to dive into the mud and muck. Despite all the dirt, I’m still a news guy at heart. Everything I do is about the story.” With a wink, he lifted the camera at his neck.

  Click.

  Evie blinked away the blinding flash. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Chronicling the story. Something tells me you, Lady Feeb, are going to be in a few chapters.”

  Evie reached for his camera, but Ortiz, surprisingly fast for a guy of his girth, spun away. “Hands off, cowgirl. This here’s my lifeblood.”

  “That photo you just snapped has very much to do with my blood.” She held out her hand. “I’m a federal agent involved in a murder investigation, and you will not sell any photos of me to anyone, anywhere.” She jabbed her outstretched hand at Freddy’s chest. “So hand over the camera, or the next race you see will be the one of me hauling you off to jail.”

  Ortiz puffed out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “You’re no fun. A woman who wears red boots should be fun.”

  He handed over the camera. She deleted the shot, then scanned the thumbnails. Tons of photos from the downtown branch of the L.A. Public Library. “You’ve been shooting at the bomb site.”

  “Yep. I stop by every day and snap a few. Two days ago I got some great shots of a Girl Scout troop hanging paper cranes from the trees. I’m planning a photo essay called After the Boom.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Should rake in some serious money, maybe even get me a six-figure book deal.”

  The guy was a slug, but even slugs had a place in her world. “You haven’t noticed anyone hanging around the crime scene, have you? A white male between the ages of thirty and fifty, loner-type, neat appearance, little uptight?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “That the profile on the bomber?”

  “Just answer the question, Freddy.”

  “No, no one like that comes to mind, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  She tucked her business card in the playbook and handed it back to him. “Yeah, I get it. The bomber’s your trifecta.”

  His slick grin slid away, along with the toasty color of his skin. Waltzing Matilda nickered and shuffled her hooves. The tabloid photographer said nothing, but he didn’t need to. Evie smelled his fear. The bomber terrified him. Good. She could work with fear.

  * * *

  10:02 a.m.

  “Nice day, huh?”

  Carter Vandemere raised his face to the brilliant sun streaming through the glass. “Beautiful,” he said. Today the light was unfiltered by clouds or a veil of the ubiquitous L.A. smog. He flexed his fingers, the knuckles letting out happy pops. Perfect for working.

  His right nostril lifted as he reached for his hard-sided lunch box. Not this work. Work that mattered. Work that fed his soul. “I’m going to lunch.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early for that?” his colleague asked.

  “I’m hungry.” For the light.

  Outside, downtown L.A. buzzed and beeped and whirred and whistled. So many people coming and going. Businessmen in suits, the homeless wearing bits and pieces of the street, a tiny oriental woman with a large sunhat. A good place to get lost. He hurried down an alley to the fourth building on the right. Abandoned earlier in the year, the building’s sunny rooftop was perfect for working.

  Once on the roof, he opened his box and took out the tiny canvas, a work of art in itself. He’d taken a c
hopstick and broken it into four pieces. Then he’d smoothed the ends with fine-grit sandpaper and secured them in a tiny square. Then came canvas preparation. Scraping. Cleaning. Drying. Stretching. Tanning.

  He poked through the tubes of oil paint in his box. So many colors, but always the same subject. A sun. His fingers slid over a tube of Cadmium Red Deep. He dabbed the tip of his tiny brush into the swirl of paint and added a burst of color to Maria’s beautiful flesh.

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, October 29

  11:07 a.m.

  Evie sank to her knees and ran her hands through the scarred earth outside the L.A. Public Library.

  Her lungs filled with warm morning air still tinged with smoke and the odor of melted plastic, charred metal, and dust. The smells were always the same. Sounds, too. The pop of the ignition switch, roar of an explosion, screams of innocents. She sat on a bare patch of ground, her fingers digging into the crumbled earth, and felt the ground shake.

  Bombs had no nationality, no politics, no religious preference. They were conduits for destruction, and the more times she dug her hands into the jagged scars they left behind, the more she hated the hands that made them.

  The trees to her right shivered. Was it the breeze? A feral cat? A bomber revisiting ground zero? And then she smelled him. Fine leather, opulence, and a hint of citrus. She took a deeper breath.

  “You really shouldn’t sneak up on people who carry guns,” Evie said.

  Jack stepped out of the leafy cover of trees. “I needed to see you.”

  She swatted the dirt from her palms. “If you keep this up, I’m going to think you have a thing for me.”

  “Not a thing, a who.” His lips remained stick straight, his gaze intense. “Brother Gabriel North. He’s the leader of a religious group with a sizable church in Topanga Canyon and a mission outreach north of Bunker Hill.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “After I purchased the Titian nude, he sent me an e-mail politely asking me to rid the downtown area of the sinful work, and after his signature, he included a quote from scripture: If any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss: but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire. 1 Corinthians 3:15-17. I ran across the e-mail when I was reviewing correspondence associated with collection acquisitions. North and his crew later held a public protest outside the foundation gallery.”